


Never Too Late For Second Chances

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Crowley pines, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Some angst, Wedding Rings, Woke Up Married, but as always a happy ending, mostly based on the tv show, rated 'mature' only for language (just to be safe), sort of a mashup of book and TV canon really, spoilers for the tv show, this is my third fic with the tag 'Crowley pines' (but he does)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 11:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19250770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: About two years before Armageddon, Crowley and Aziraphale wake up married. Things go downhill from there.But sometimes... sometimes in life, you get a second chance.





	Never Too Late For Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ineffable Husbands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13343730) by [ImprobableDreams900](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900). 



> Inspired by another awesome fic, 'Ineffable Husbands' by ImprobableDreams900. Because once I had the 'accidental marriage' idea in my head, it woudln't go away...

**_ About two years before Armageddon is due to happen… _ **

Crowley came back to consciousness slowly. He felt warm, and comfortable, and only a little hungover. He felt so warm and comfortable, in fact, that it took him a moment to realise that the reason he felt so warm and comfortable was that he was curled around another person.

Abruptly the warm, comfortable feeling was gone, replaced by panic and dread. In thousands of years of drinking, Crowley had only ever woken up alone. He’d always figured that this was because he had no deep, subconscious desire to bring anyone back to where he slept; no buried emotions for the alcohol to bring out in him. 

But that wasn’t _entirely_ true, because if there was anyone he’d ever felt the urge to bring back to his place, then it could only be…

Crowley opened his eyes, hissing as the light straggling between the gap in the curtains pierced his vision, and peered gingerly at the person wrapped around him.

It was Aziraphale, still clad in layers of coat and waistcoat and shirt and so on, even though he was in bed. 

Of course it was bloody well _Aziraphale_ , Crowley thought, somewhere between giddy, delighted terror, and despair. There was no one else on this benighted Earth he would ever even think, in the depths of drunken ideas, about sharing a bed with. But why, oh why, did it have to be _him?_

He knew how the angel would take this. He’d pull back, make excuses for why they couldn’t see each other any longer, and proceed to ignore Crowley for the next century – and that was if Crowley was lucky. If Aziraphale wasn’t completely overcome by the realisation of how close he and the demon had gotten, and didn’t just end their Arrangement altogether.

Crowley argued with himself over whether to wake the slumbering angel. On the one hand, this was _comfortable_ , and if the angel was asleep Crowley didn’t yet have to see the look of horror that would no doubt make its way over his face when Aziraphale realised he was cuddled up to a demon. 

On the other hand, the longer that Crowley prolonged the inevitable, the more time he had in which to build up a sense of dread at what would happen when Aziraphale woke up. Best to get it all over with.

Decision made, Crowley braced himself, and started to move his hand, with the intention of prodding the angel’s shoulder until he came awake. But then a glint of gold caught the light, as well as Crowley’s attention, and he froze as he realised it was a ring.

A wedding ring.

“ _No_ ,” Crowley hissed at it, because this made the situation a _thousand,_ _ten thousand_ times worse. “You _cannot_ be a wedding ring.”

Next to him, a frown passed over Aziraphale’s face. Crowley realised, too late, than his voice had risen on the last few words. He watched in dread as Aziraphale stirred, coming back to wakefulness, and finally opened his eyes.

They stared at one another: Aziraphale in blank confusion, Crowley in a special kind of terror.

“What…?” Aziraphale began, and Crowley cut him off.

“So it turns out maybe we got a little too drunk last night, angel,” said Crowley, with the special manic cheer that meant he was almost frightened out of his wits about what was going to happen next. “Mind showing me your hands?”

“What?” said Aziraphale, and then: “Crowley, why are we in a bed? _Together?_ ”

“Just – show me your hands,” said Crowley. 

“Why?” Aziraphale looked down at his own hands. The perplexed furrow between his eyebrows took on epic proportions. “Wait, is that a ring? Why am I wearing a ring?”

Silently, Crowley held up a hand, revealing his own ring, and waited for the angel to put two and two together. 

Aziraphale stared. Then his eyes widened.

“Crowley –” His voice ended on a squeak. He tried again. “Do you mean to tell me–”

“Apparently we entered the bonds of holy matrimony. Or _un_ holy matrimony, I suppose,” said Crowley, and waited for the axe to fall.

But Aziraphale only stared at him, eyes wide. A good thirty seconds of silence passed, unbroken.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley waved a hand over the angel’s face. Aziraphale didn’t move.

Genuinely worried, now, Crowley said, “Aziraphale, are you okay?”

Aziraphale’s mouth moved as though he was trying to speak, but no sound came out.

He’d seen computers do this, Crowley thought, when their processors became overwhelmed – humans called it the Blue Screen of Death. He’d never thought he’d see an angel go through something similar.

Crowley sat back, and decided that what the angel needed, in order to get his mind working again, was most likely a little space. With that in mind, Crowley extricated himself from Aziraphale – trying to control the sudden, unreasonable feeling of _loss_ he experienced once they were no longer tangled together – and kicked back the bed-sheets, swinging his legs out of bed.

He wandered into the kitchen of his flat, with some vague idea of miracling Aziraphale up a cup of tea while the angel was still busy rebooting, but stopped dead as he saw what was sitting innocently on the long bench that Crowley used instead of a proper kitchen table.

After a moment, Crowley walked over, and picked up the marriage certificate.

At least they’d used their pseudonyms, he thought, for whatever good that might do. _Anthony J. Crowley_ said one name and surname box, while the other said _Ezra Fell_. For a moment Crowley felt some small measure of relief.

But the signatures below the boxes, as Crowley squinted at them, said something different. His own signature simply said _Crowley_ , while the angel’s signature was a nearly-unintelligible scribble which Crowley knew, from long familiarity with said scribble, said _Aziraphale_.

“We’re fucked,” said Crowley, because if anyone ever saw this certificate, they most definitely would be.

He had miracled up two cups of tea, already making plans for a safe-deposit box under a false name, when there was a sudden splutter of “ _Crowley!_ ” from the bedroom. A moment later, a rather dishevelled Aziraphale walked out, every inch of him stiff with outrage, as though this had all been _Crowley’s_ fault. But then, that was Aziraphale all over.

Crowley silently passed him a cup of tea, which Aziraphale took automatically.

“This cannot be happening,” said the angel, clutching the tea-cup in a white-knuckled grip. “This is simply _not possible_.”

“What, a demon and an angel getting married?” said Crowley, needling the angel just a little, because he knew what was coming. Had known from the moment he’d noticed the ring on his finger. “Apparently it is.”

A vein throbbed at Aziraphale’s temple.

“Will you take things _seriously_ , for just _once!_ ” shouted Aziraphale. He looked furious.

“Calm down, and drink some of your tea,” said Crowley, for once in his life trying not to be a bastard, because he knew that beneath the fury Aziraphale was probably more terrified than he’d ever been in his entire existence. “Shouting isn’t going to help. And this isn’t any more _my_ fault than it is yours, so stop blaming me.”

“What are you implying?” Aziraphale snapped, without taking Crowley’s advice about the tea. 

Crowley raised one eyebrow. Aziraphale huffed.

“Oh, shut up! I don’t even _like_ you! I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t _ever_ –”

“Marry me?” said Crowley, his voice as dry as a desert, and carefully, not-even-a-little-bit hurt – not that Aziraphale would have noticed if Crowley _had_ sounded hurt, as worked-up as he was. 

“Exactly!” said Aziraphale, and finally took a gulp of the tea Crowley had miracled up for him. “If _anyone_ finds out – _either_ side – just imagine the fuss!”

Crowley was a demon, he told himself, demons didn’t have hurt feelings. Especially not over uptight angels. Unfortunately, Crowley had never been very good at lying to himself, and this time was no exception.

_ I’m fucked _ , he thought gloomily, and not for the first time.

Aziraphale took another gulp of tea, and turned to Crowley without actually meeting his eyes.

“Crowley, you need to – to make arrangements. We can just… sort this out, and then forget any of it ever happened!”

Crowley was silent for a long moment.

“Sure,” he said finally, his voice utterly devoid of any inflection. “A divorce, then?”

“If you please.” Aziraphale put his half-full cup of tea down on the bench, noticed the marriage certificate lying there, and turned away from it, looking flustered. “I would be much obliged if you would take care of it. And then, I think – I think we should–”

“Take some time off from each other?” Crowley suggested, still in that same, emotionless tone.

“Yes!” Aziraphale glanced at him, fleetingly, and then away. “I think that would be for the best.”

“Right then. I’m sure you can show yourself out.”

“Right. Yes.” Another fleeting glance, and then the angel was gone. A moment later, the front door slammed shut.

Crowley sat down on the nearest seat, leaned his elbows on the bench, and rubbed a hand over his face.

“A divorce, he says,” he said out loud. “Forget it ever happened. Like it’s as easy as that.”

But maybe, for the angel at least, it was. Crowley had begun to think that maybe, _maybe_ he wasn’t as alone in his – his ridiculous _infatuation_ – as he’d once believed… but every time they took a step forward, the angel took another two steps back. Crowley didn’t know what to think anymore. All he knew was that he was tired of it.

_ Maybe it’s for the best, _ Crowley thought. They’d spend some time away from each other, and maybe these – _feelings_ – might settle down a bit. They never had before; but maybe this time, it would work, and Crowley could get the angel out of his system.

“Yeah, right,” said Crowley, and went to fetch a bottle of scotch out of the cupboard, because facing his current situation sober was its very own kind of Hell.

* * *

In the end, Crowley didn’t arrange the divorce. He _couldn’t_. He didn’t know why, but every time he went to do it, he just… didn’t. Couldn’t bring himself to.

Instead, the marriage certificate found its way to a safe-deposit box in the bank under a false name, where Crowley tried, most of the time, not to think about it, because that seemed safest.

But he didn’t know what to do about the ring. 

It was a nice ring, perfectly sized, very gold in colour. He thought about getting rid of it. Hocking it, maybe, or perhaps just melting it down. But he couldn’t do that, either.

Eventually, he had the ring strung on a long chain around his neck, where he kept it tucked under his shirt, against his skin. _Out of sight, out of mind_ , he tried to tell himself, but the truth was, he thought about the ring a lot.

After all – it was a symbol that deep down, even if Aziraphale couldn’t admit it sober, the angel _(probably)_ cared for him. Somewhere beneath his terrible fear of breaking the rules, of upsetting his superiors, he liked Crowley well enough to marry him.

It was a thin, forlorn sort of comfort, but Crowley took it, all the same. Here he was, married to the only person worth knowing, and the last time Crowley seen him, Aziraphale couldn’t even bear to look at him. Hell couldn’t have come up with a worse torture if they’d tried.

He didn’t see Aziraphale for another six months, and tried not to feel as though something inside him was breaking. 

He’d get over it. He always did.

* * *

**_ Two years later… _ **

After the Armageddon-that-wasn’t… after they’d gone back to Crowley’s flat, and spent all night concentrating on what to do about the retribution from Hell and Heaven that both of them were sure was coming, and ended up swapping bodies as a solution… that was when it happened.

It was odd for Crowley, seeing Aziraphale walking around with his face on, and even stranger to be in a body not his own. 

Aziraphale frowned, and for a moment, Crowley thought that it was simply the same disorientation that he felt at being in the wrong body, but then the angel said, 

“What is this – I can feel something–”

Aziraphale began groping at something around his neck, and Crowley realised, too late, what was about to happen. He cursed himself for a sentimental fool.

“Wait, don’t–” Crowley began to say, but Aziraphale had already pulled out the ring, still hanging from the chain around his neck.

“Is this–?” Aziraphale peered at the ring, several complicated expressions crossing his face in quick succession.

Crowley watched with a sense of impending doom. 

“Crowley, have you been wearing this all this time?” asked Aziraphale, and for once, his open, expressive face was difficult to read.

Crowley didn’t know how to answer that question.

“Maybe,” was what he settled on.

But Aziraphale didn’t look angry. He looked… he looked like he had that night back in 1967, when he’d said _You go too fast for me, Crowley_. Like something in him _hurt_.

“We should really go,” said Crowley, desperate not to get shot down yet again, because he didn’t think, after everything, that his heart could take it. “Face the music.”

“But – oh, yes, alright, _perhaps_ ,” said Aziraphale. “But we are talking about this later!”

Azirpahale tucked the ring back under the shirt he was wearing – carefully, as though it belonged there, and Crowley ruthlessly stamped on any tendrils of hope arising from the gesture.

Together, they left the flat. Crowley just hoped their plan to avoid Heaven and Hell’s vengeance worked.

* * *

Afterwards, sitting on the bench in St James Park, Aziraphale said suddenly, “Crowley, about the ring.”

Crowley tilted his head to show that he was listening, but said nothing.

“Did you ever… I mean, did we ever… actually get, well, _divorced?_ ”

Crowley debated lying about it. But what was the point?

“Nope.” He carefully didn’t look at the angel.

“Oh.” Aziraphale shifted slightly. “Well. Good.”

Crowley turned his head, very slowly, to stare at Aziraphale.

“Good?” he echoed.

“Yes, well…” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, a rush of emotions playing across his face. “Do you remember when I said you go too fast for me?”

He could hardly forget, Crowley thought. But he only said, “I might vaguely remember something along those lines.”

“Well, I think – I think we might finally be going at the same pace.”

And then – Aziraphale placed one faintly-trembling hand over Crowley’s.

Crowley stared down at Aziraphale’s hand covering his own, and it felt like a sun had just gone supernova inside his chest.

“Oh,” he managed. And then, because he could barely believe it after six thousand years of Aziraphale denying everything they might be to each other, he said, “Angel, really…?”

“Really,” said Aziraphale, looking at once determined and horribly, terribly nervous. “I’m not… _too late_ , I hope…?”

“Never,” Crowley assured him. Silence fell. They sat there, looking at each other, each overcome by emotion.

Finally, they both began to smile.


End file.
